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chapter seventy-two. (the death of albus dumbledore )
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ONCE BACK UNDER THE STARRY SKY, Harry heaved Dumbledore onto the top of the nearest boulder and then to his feet. Ascella gripped onto both Harry and Dumbledore and closed her ideas, thinking hard of her destination: Hogsmeade. After a small moment, the three of them twisted into that tight compression.
She knew it had worked before she opened his eyes: The smell of salt, the sea breeze had gone. She, Harry and Dumbledore were shivering and dripping in the middle of the dark High Street in Hogsmeade. For one horrible moment Ascella's imagination showed her more Inferi creeping toward her around the sides of shops, but she blinked and saw that nothing was stirring; all was still, the darkness complete but for a few street-lamps and lit upper windows.
"We did it, Professor!" Harry whispered as Ascella attempted to heal her wounds. "We did it! We got the Horcrux!"
Dumbledore staggered against him. For a moment, Ascella thought that her inexpert Apparition had thrown Dumbledore off balance; then she saw his face, paler and damper than ever in the distant light of a streetlamp.
"Sir, are you all right?" she asked softly. She loathed him, and everything he stood for, but she despised seeing someone in the state he was.
"I've been better," said Dumbledore weakly, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "That potion . . . was no health drink . . ."
And to their horror, Dumbledore sank onto the ground.
"Sir — it's okay, sir, you're going to be all right, don't worry —"
She looked around desperately for help, but there was nobody to be seen and all she could think was that she must somehow get Dumbledore quickly to the hospital wing.
